


Mirdéa

by ElizabethStitch



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Castle Volkihar, Dark, Dawnguard, Dawnguard DLC, Gore, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Skyrim, Multi, Original Character(s), Vampire Hunters, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethStitch/pseuds/ElizabethStitch
Summary: Mirdéa is a high-elf seeking revenge on the vampire race after the massacre of her townspeople and childhood friend. She goes to the Dawnguard soldiers in Dayspring Canyon for help, but everything she plans falls into the clawed clutches of a much darker fate.





	1. Journal Entry One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first five chapters are a collection of journal entries written by Mirdéa. Come the sixth chapter the story will begin in third person, and warnings on the chapter's content will be noted accordingly.  
> Enjoy!

I never thought it would happen to me, that the vampires would kill someone I held dear. I never thought the attacks would come so close and so soon. They never struck twice in one day and yet they picked _him_ when they decided to. I had to bury him three days ago and I could not stop visiting his grave. I wish I could bring him back, bring him back to life and treat everything as it once was.

I’m so sorry, Yarvik. You were a good friend.

But you have given me more reason to set out. You were the final push. These vampires are growing too headstrong and I’m putting a stop to it - I’m becoming a vampire huntress. I’m going to Dawnguard in hopes that can happen, that they will acknowledge me as an eager woman ready to spill cursed blood. I will protect my village and avenge those who were murdered. You will not have died in vain, and nor will the others have.

I promise.


	2. Journal Entry Two

Dayspring Canyon is so beautiful. It’s eerie how such a place holds such a secret, and I was more reluctant to enter Fort Dawnguard than when I first left home. I still entered with strong purpose, though, as my desire to kill vampires did not dwindle.

I encountered two men: Isran and and Tolan. I think I arrived in the midst of a deep conversation so I lingered by the entrance, waiting for them to finish. They were discussing something about the Vigilants and how they were dropping dead everywhere, how drained corpses of townspeople were found in cattle fields, about entire fleets with the purpose of killing vampires disappearing without any trace. I was very intent on learning what else had been happening, but Isran locked eyes with me - he didn’t look too pleased.

He called me forward, asking who I was and what I was doing at the fortress. I answered both questions and the glare in his eyes vanished. He was quick to give me orders, which did shock me a bit. I was expecting a sort of trial but all he did was toss me a crossbow, bolts, and a few warnings about the cave I was to clean out. 

I’m going to Dimhollow Crypt come morning. I’m to retrieve some ancient vampire artifact and turn it over to Isran, but Tolan kept warning me of how quickly the vampires can kill. I personally think he was a fool to let any Vigilant try to sneak around in there if the place is truly as terrible as he makes it sound. I’m honestly just grateful one of the archers here is willing to help me polish my skills.. I haven’t shot anything in a little while.


	3. Journal Entry Three

It was quite the trek to the cave, especially at first light. I’d to stop by the stables outside of Riften because there was no way I was traveling on foot. I arrived at the cave near midday and waited at the mouth for a moment, fastening my bolts and locking one into the crossbow - I wasn’t taking any chances with purely sneaking.

I munched on an apple and then began my descent into the muggy darkness. I was shivering only a few steps in, even with my fur pelts hugging me, and losing footing over icy snow patches. Luckily the first few vampires I spotted never heard my struggles, since they were in harsh conversation concerning the Vigilants.

I'm nervous about how many more vampires are behind this door. And how many more of those disgusting _dogs_ will be waiting? Their eyes were so ... I don't even know how to describe them. I've never seen anything like them!

I _am_ a bit nervous, so I'm just going to sit by the entrance to the sanctum for a little bit. It also looks like there's some sort of tension chord keeping everything in place. Yay, a puzzle.. more reason to wait a minute.


	4. Journal Entry Four

So far everyone’s been a surprisingly easy kill. The draugr were the only creatures that posed a more difficult threat. However, in the belly of this cave I was attacked from behind and I’ve been dizzy since then. It was a vampire, but she also appeared to be a sort of necromancer? I don't know, but the dead were rising from the pool left and right and I was was scared stiff. I couldn’t think straight, I only saw skeletons and waterlogged corpses trudging after me, that demon woman surrounding me in red. I killed them eventually, obviously, but I haven't felt good since.  
Time to sit.. again.


	5. J  our nal    Ent ry   F iv  e

I feel so sick, I cant go on

It is harder to kill and I am fatigued after every painfu l attempt  
What is happening  
I feel h eavy ?

 

im so sick, I feel like im fall in g ap a r t  
Ive killed more but i cant go on, im so dizz y

 

im in a chamber now

A woman

 

Serana


	6. Volkihar

Serana was not in the best mood when the elf who freed her, Mirdéa, collapsed after saying nothing but mumbled words and questions through their journey out of the cavern. Serana had to take the lead and drag her along, but even though she was annoyed she felt a fair amount of pity; the elf looked so sickly, so pale, with sweat beading on her forehead and eyes bloodshot from what ailed her. She looked sick to her stomach, and it humored Serana how Mirdéa kept scribbling in her little book until they were outside.

She decided to take a peek into the journal when Mirdéa fell asleep after sobbing into the snow, flipping through the pages until she came across the entry involving the Dawnguard. She watched Mirdéa sleep after reading to her last page, frowning. She pitied her now more than ever, finally understanding why she’d looked so beaten. She understood that she was more terrified than any other being she’d encountered and that she only wanted what she thought was right. But she could not save her. She was already too sick and they were too deep in the frozen wilderness; the vampirism was already too strong, nearly lethal. It would grow stronger while she slept and potentially kill her, so she hovered her hands over Mirdéa and muttered a strange incantation. She woke slowly, her eyes rolled back.

“We have to get moving,” Serana urged gently, lifting Mirdéa’s torso so she sat upright. “We need to get you someplace safe. If you’re able to walk just a bit further I can… I can take you to my family. We can help heal you.” That was music to Mirdéa’s ears and she put forth all of her strength to rise to her feet. She refused help, shooing Serana away whenever she began to stumble. She was stubborn as an ass until they got the ferry, and even then she refused Serana’s attempts.

She passed out again in the boat, leaving Serana to row them into the dense fog. She watched Mirdéa rest - if she could even call it that; she was twitching, her jaw tensing repeatedly and her hands gripping the rims of the boat. Her breathing had grown heavy now and it seemed she’d just gone through a day of strenuous labor, but the dark veins slowly pushing against her paling skin made it obvious it was anything but.

Serana heard the cry of crows and vultures after a few minutes had passed, along with the muffled sloshes of waves on a broken shore. She was finally home. She reached toward Mirdéa once they docked, pulling her closer and hoisting her up. She was grateful she was too weak to fight her anymore, as it made it much easier to bring her to the gates.

Mirdéa grew conscious hours after being brought into the castle, but when she came to her senses she’d a difficult time recalling Serana. She had no idea of where she was, only that is was dark and and the floor she rested on felt uncomfortably damp. She even struggled with revealing her name to a man named Lord Harkon, whose voice was enough to strike fear in her heart. He stood over her, lacking all but a strange hunger in his eyes. But Serana was next to him, pleading with him quietly while Mirdéa stared blankly.

“She was kind to me, even in the midst of her illness. Even though she was meant to kill me like the rest, she didn’t.”

“Suppose it _is_ her illness, Serana,” Lord Harkon countered. “If I release her -”

“She is _dying._ But if you grant her our healing, she may survive as one of us and instead prey on the living, not the undead.”

Lord Harkon looked down upon her. “Why do such a thing to this elf?"

 _“She helped me, father!”_ Serana snapped. “She liberated me! She has done more than you or your people have _ever_ done for me. You locked me away down there and Mirdéa set me free.”

He paused, sighing heavily at Serana’s words. His gaze went between her and the trembling high-elf, who was still in a daze. He grumbled, reluctantly deciding to appease his daughter. She’d justified a reason to let Mirdéa live well enough, so he knew he ought to do something right for her. Mirdéa was slowly brought to her feet with a gentle motion of his hand, the young woman retching even at the straightening of her hunched spine. She looked like death itself with her veins puckering at the surface of her skin, her eyes rolling lazily to examine her surroundings. Perhaps it was Serana’s request that made him feel a sudden stir of pity for the elf before him. Or maybe it wasn’t a stir of emotion but of a memory - a memory of what his daughter had gone through so very long ago.

He brought Mirdéa forth with another simple gesture, Serana and other curious vampires watching with mixed expressions. Some made it very plain that they didn’t think Mirdéa deserved such mercy from their lord. Lord Harkon made Mirdéa hover before him, close enough to watch the muscles in her neck twitch and her eyes continue to repeatedly roll back into her head. She was trying to conjure words - questions for him, Harkon presumed, but her tired eyes kept reaching for Serana. He wondered why she kept going back to her, why she seemed to trust her of all others. Again, if she’d set out to kill his kind…

“Father…” Serana urged, nodding toward Mirdéa. The woman was nearly dead, and there would be no transformation after it. Just as Serana had said when she first brought Mirdéa in, she was poisoned beyond mortal recovery. He gripped the elf’s hair, holding her head firmly and jerking it to the side, revealing a neck blackened with bulging toxic veins. He seized Mirdéa and bit into her, feeling the veins pop and surge with thick black blood. He let his fangs sink into her flesh, making her go limp, able only to release a weak moan before slowly closing her eyes, one final breath squeezed out of her by the strength of Harkon’s grasp.

Mirdéa was taken from the room almost instantly, Serana and a court of vampires carrying her body away from Lord Harkon and down a long corridor to a large metal door. It squealed open, the awful sound echoing through the cavern within. The room was very dark and cold, crumbling from abandonment, but what did that matter to a corpse? She was merely as dead as the room. Serana waited for the others to leave before approaching Mirdéa, who was left on the damp cobblestone floor. She knelt by her and popped the broach of her cloak, draping the velvet fabric over her figure in hopes it might comfort her when she finally woke. 

“You did a lot for me,” she sighed, “whether you believe it or not. Sounds pretty funny right now, but if you weren’t so bent on killing off vampires you never would have come across me.” She paused, suddenly emotional. “I’d still be down there. I’d still be asleep in that damn casket for however much longer. I’d probably never be found; It even seemed like my own father had forgotten about me.” She looked over Mirdéa, saddened. She was sorry she’d grown so ill, that her youthful glow had been snuffed out by the darkness. But even now she held the same beauty as before. 

“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she whispered, brow furrowed. “You’re really the kindest being I’ve known in a very long time.” A chuckle, "And I've only known you for a little while." She hesitated for a moment, staring at Mirdéa’s closed eyes and wishing they were open - wishing they were alive as she was speaking. But for now she was gone, and she thought she might as well show her thanks in a nicer way - maybe in a way that would leave some sort of memory in Mirdéa’s clouded mind. So she closed the space between them and planted a soft kiss on her forehead, whispering her thanks one more time before leaving her alone in the room.


	7. Power of the Grave

When Mirdéa woke she was in a daze, every sliver of light creeping into the room burning with unnatural ferocity. She thought her eyes were going to melt and ooze from their sockets. She raised her arms to shield herself; they were sore, aching with every motion. She winced and squinted, slowly lowering her arms and peering at the figures before her. She could barely make out the figure to the left of the big black mass to its side, the shadow too big to be a person. 

As she wobbled closer she found that the figure was Lord Harkon, and the large mass beside him was an ebony fountain - a simulacrum of the vampire lord, horns splitting the skull’s cranium as its jaw hung open, blood gushing out of it and into the large basin. Mirdéa’s stomach growled, the dark color teasing her appetite. 

“Awake at last, I see,” Harkon said, a bit of annoyance in his voice. It was gone in another moment, however, as Mirdéa fell to her knees at the foot of the fountain once she came upon it. “Power is growing within you, and you must now learn to use it properly.”  He didn’t wait for the elf’s reply. “With my guidance, you will become a deadly instrument. You will strike fear and dread into those who oppose you - but you must do as I instruct.” 

Lord Harkon approached Mirdéa, hovering his palm by her head. “You must first awaken the gift I have given you. You must embrace it.” As the words left his lips Mirdéa felt a surge of pain, starting from her ankles and shooting to her jaw. She howled in agony, her skin pulsing. “Use the power of the ancient blood coursing through you to transform.”

Mirdéa let out another long wail, her cry turning to a shriek as she felt her skin stretch and tear. Her head grew heavy with a pounding pain she’d never felt before, and her jaw unhinged as a more beastly set of fangs forced their way through her bloodied gums. She felt her back give, like her spine had burst out of her backside, and a new awkward weight cause her to fumble. She collapsed, rough palms scraping the crumbling marble floor.

She looked to Harkon, her panting breath deep and labored. Her body ached, still throbbing from the dramatic transformation. She wanted to speak, to ask what he’d done to her, but she couldn’t bear to move. 

“Arise,” Harkon called, “and feast.” He pointed a clawed finger to a lump in the corner, the thing shivering and moaning quietly. Mirdéa craned her neck, peering to make out what the figure was. She detected the mass was a woman, relatively young in age but tattered and worn - she was near death. And she’d been given a fatal wound. A fresh wound, warm and rich with blood still oozing.

Mirdéa growled.

“I told you to rise,” Harkon bellowed, casting his gaze over Mirdéa. He held his hand to her and she felt a tug in her chest, the force rushing through her. She felt herself begin to stand against her will, the motion causing fresh pain to distract her from her hunger. She wailed more, louder, as her back straightened and tensed. Every muscle was on fire, every tendon. She was certain even her thickened skin was burning, hot to the touch. 

“I expect you to do as I command,” Harkon lowered his hand, allowing Mirdéa to fall to ease. She hunched her back, cracking it and the rest of her new form. “Now go to the woman. Go to her and have your first bite.” He chuckled, waving an outstretched hand to the dark corner. The crippled woman groaned as she rose to her feet, her movements robotic. She trudged forward, folding her arms over her bleeding abdomen. Mirdéa watched her blankly, the only thing holding her attention being the blood and how ravenous she’d become upon smelling it… seeing it. She could practically taste it now.

Mirdéa lunged, gliding to the other end of the room in a rabbit’s heartbeat.  She gripped the woman’s hair, yanking so her neck was fully exposed. A terrible  _ crack _ rang through the chamber when she did so, and the woman’s body went limp. Her neck slowly seeped purple and puckered, prompting Mirdéa to finish her work. She sank her jagged teeth into her neck, fangs tearing through vein and muscle. Blood gushed from the wound, trailing down her neck and dribbling from Mirdéa’s chin. She drank, gulping down the crimson until there was nothing left to taste.

She threw down the woman, wiping the blood from her chin and licking it from her claws. It tasted absolutely divine - she wanted more. Needed more. But the familiar feeling in her chest returned and she knew her time was up. She returned to Harkon, appetite still raging, but as she drew closer the grip turned to a weight, and she felt her body begin to tighten. A numbing sensation overcame her, vision growing hazy once she fell to the floor again. Her hunger waned and her strength left her to be the high-elf she had always been. No claws, no calloused skin; She had returned to her softer, more fragile self, leaving her shivering and barely covered with Serana's cloak and bloodied rags. 

Lord Harkon pushed stray locks of hair from Mirdéa’s eyes, her body too rigid to flinch away. Her jaw clenched and her eyes held wide open, clutching the cloak to her collar. She was in disbelief. Had she really seen, felt, and  _ done  _ something that terrible? She couldn’t look back. She was too afraid, too uneasy and ill to even dare. Finally, in nearly a whisper, she managed:

“What did I do?”

“You know exactly what you did, Mirdéa.” Harkon retracted his hand and looked to the chamber doors. Serana peeked through, brow knit with concern. She ventured further in, keeping her eyes on Mirdéa.

“Didn’t take it too well, I see,” she sighed, standing beside her father. 

“In truth, she did well,” Harkon replied. “She’s only showing weakness now that she has returned to her mortal form.”

Serana watched Mirdéa as she began to stand, wobbling and fighting for balance. She offered her hand but Mirdéa sharply waved her away with a hiss. “I don’t need your help,” she muttered. “I don’t need anyone’s help.” 

“You do,” Serana said, firmly, “and you’re getting it.” She caught Mirdéa’s forearm before she stumbled over, jerking her closer. “Don’t be stubborn  _ now.”  _

“I said I don’t need your-”

“Shut up, okay? Just be quiet.” Serana did her best to keep the elf on her feet, but seeing as how she was a taller woman it proved to be difficult. She managed to help carry her from the room where her father still stood, hissing to keep the other vampires away. She could feel Mirdéa shaking, the violent shivers coming in waves, and her jaw began to chatter. Her breath grew shallow and frantic, and she felt her give out again. 


	8. Bloodstone Chalice

She was wrapped in thin linens in a dim room, tall candelabras on either side of the bed she rested on. Gothic interior greeted Mirdéa’s eyes when they finally opened, as well as a glowing pair of gold eyes floating in the dark.

“Greetings, fledgling,” cooed a man. He stepped forward, the corners wrinkling with a smile. “Fret not, I’m not here to hurt you. And even if I did want to,” he chuckled, his smile turning cruel, “I certainly wouldn’t do it here.”

Mirdéa stared at him, unsure how to react. When she opened her mouth to speak, the man only held up a finger as he stepped nearer the bed. 

“Tut-tut,” he sighed. “Keep silent. After all that’s happened to  _ you _ , poor Altmer, we don’t want you fretting yourself any further.” The man patted Mirdéa’s knee, which she quickly moved from him. Upon seeing his features better in the candlelight, the man appeared to be a dunmer, though his complexion was far more distorted than any dark-elf she’d seen. He smiled again, two sharp fangs sending shivers down her spine.

“My name is Garan, and it’s certainly a pleasure to meet you.” He bowed slightly, nodding. “You needn’t fear us here. After all, Lord Harkon decided it to be befitting that the savior of his daughter be granted such a gift - and kept here.” He sighed, though it sounded more like a growl of disapproval. He quickly masked his disappointment. “It matters not if you are merely half of our kind. I know you will prove yourself to be useful.”

Mirdéa could only muster a long, low hiss. Garan chuckled and quirked a brow. “Feisty one, aren’t you? That seems to be the only tasteful thing about you.” He offered a mean smile before continuing. “Now, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“I’m not- “

“It involves a certain artifact,” Garan paced, tapping the tips of his fingers together. “A chalice - the Bloodstone Chalice.” He glanced at Mirdéa, who simply watched him glide about the room. “I know someone of your  _ previous  _ stature wouldn’t know a thing of something so precious, but I think you’re the perfect fit for the task.”

“Fetch your own chalice,” Mirdéa frowned, sitting upright in the bed. 

In the blink of an eye, Garan was by her side and inches from her face. She yelped, though half of the sound was stifled when his hand slapped against her mouth. “You will do this without hesitation _ ,  _ Mirdéa. If you don’t want to remain a weak link in the Volkihar chain, you  _ will  _ do this for me and you  _ will  _ succeed.” He chuckled and dug his claws into her cheeks, watching Mirdéa’s eyes glaze with tears. “You will be my vessel. I will move through you to bring power back to my clan.”

Mirdéa tore herself from his grip, tears spilling. Garan moved back, his face without expression as he watched the elf swipe at the blood beading from his wounds. He made a graceful movement with one hand, a red mist slowly beginning to swirl in his palm. Soon, an object was visible - an object Mirdéa presumed to be the Bloodstone Chalice. She watched, still holding her cheeks.

“This,” he smiled, “is the Bloodstone Chalice. Now, you are to take this to a quaint little place in The Rift known as Redwater Den, where you will fill it with its bloody waters.” He snapped his fingers, the chalice appearing on Mirdéa’s lap. “I’m sure Lord Harkon will be most pleased when you return with the blood of our ancestors. As will I, of course. You’ll be the little hero of this castle.” He laughed. “Isn’t that what you wanted, Mirdéa? Didn’t you want to save your people?” 

Mirdéa felt a sudden depression as the room grew hazy. Garan seemed to become a mist as well, though the drowsiness she felt seemed to be his doing. Her body grew heavy and she felt herself recline, groaning weakly in frustration as her eyes closed. 

“Now you can save the ones you sought to slaughter.” 


	9. Her Last Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore warning.

Mirdéa woke on her stomach in the shivering cold, the call of crows ringing in her ears. She winced, feeling sharp pains jabbing her joints as she sluggishly rolled to lie on her back. The gray sky stretched overhead, flecks of snow drifting to kiss her parched skin. She sat up, struggling, and caught sight of Castle Volkihar in the thick haze. She was across the water, returned to the mainland and slowly freezing in the frigid cold. She felt her fingers go numb, tingling and burning as she stretched her palms for feeling.

"How the hell am I out here?" She muttered, clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Then she remembered - the chalice. She checked her person, finding that she had a decently large satchel tethered at her waist. Inside, she presumed, was the cursed thing that Garan gave her. She did not want to carry out this task for him, especially after how he treated her, but it didn't seem like she had very much of a say in the Volkihar court. She cursed her frustration into the winter air. 

“Who’s there?” A woman’s voice bellowed, followed by the clanking of heavy armor and the crunching of snow. It wasn’t long before Mirdéa caught the sight of a familiar, welcoming sight - a group of Dawnguard soldiers. She broke into a smile.

“Oh, how I’ve missed the sights of you!” Mirdéa croaked, taken aback by the harsh scratching of her voice. She held her hand to her throat, coughing and gulping.

“Who are you?” The woman demanded, now before Mirdéa and offering her hand. “We’re out this way in search of a fellow Dawnguard member. She goes by Mirdéa, has dark short hair and pale eyes. Seen her?” The woman sighed. “She’s been absent for some time and her last task was to explore this area.”

Mirdéa smiled, weakly taking the woman’s hand. “I-I am Mirdéa.” 

The woman stared her down, quirking a brow and brushing Mirdéa’s bangs from her eyes. With a disgusted yelp she pushed her back, preparing to unsheathe her weapon. “Vampire!” She hissed. “Kill the vampire!”

Mirdéa stumbled back and begged frantically, trying to convince the party that is  _ was  _ her.  The woman’s eyes only stared into hers, cold and unforgiving.

“Mirdéa was sent on a mission to _ kill _ you beasts. She wouldn’t become one after what happened to her.” She unsheathed her weapon and held the blade to Mirdéa’s throat; the blade stung her thin skin. 

“Please… I became sick, I was attacked when I was in a cavern!” She began to weep now, stuttering as she felt her chance to go home shatter to pieces. “I’m sick. Please! You have to help me!”

“I cannot. Are you blind? Are your senses lost?” The woman moved so the point of her blade steadied over Mirdéa’s heart. “You are no longer sick. You are turned. Woman, you are  _ dead _ .” A dark chuckle escaped her lips. “I cannot believe I’m wasting my time with you. You are alone, away from the clan and lower than any snowback.” She drew back her sword, “But if you insist, I might be able to end your suffering.”

Mirdéa watched as the woman began her thrust, the silver blade racing to pierce her chest. She vaulted, feeling the sword slice against her rhomboid, blood spilling into the snow. The woman slashed again and again as Mirdéa struggled to avoid each blow. 

“P-Please! Stop!” She pleaded, screaming as she felt more silver strike her flesh. A sharp, sizzling pain ripped through her side, causing the vampire to release a blood-curdling shriek. The soldiers stumbled back, wincing and shouting as they tilted their heads to avoid the harsh sound. 

The woman cursed, retracting her sword from Mirdéa’s side. The wound gushed with blood but it was dark, nearly black, and oozing like a sickly paste. Guttural growls raked the back of  Mirdéa’s throat as the pain from the wound began to branch through her, spreading from her torso to her limbs. She hunched over, bones cracking as she wailed. 

The soldiers stirred as she twitched and flinched, her growls growing more hostile and pained. Her skin, though already sickly pale, began to turn gray, and stretched thin as she seemed to grow. Her fingers elongated into claws, bursting from the skin of her fingertips. Two appendages tore out from her back, crippling her to her knees as the things spread, now appearing to be more like fleshy wings. She yowled as she panted in the snow, sounding more beast than woman.

The soldiers cried out in fright, even their leader looking anxious - but only slightly. She still brandished her sword, a grin on her lips. Despite Mirdéa’s change, she was still weak and the woman knew this. She took a step forward, signaling for her soldiers to surround the vampire. They tentatively did so, keeping their swords pointed. 

Mirdéa felt the heat of the silver radiate through the cold and she snarled, a strange rage overcoming her. She moved, crouching on all fours and growling as she dug her claws into the frozen soil. The soldiers took a step back, exclaiming nervously.

“Come on, men!” The woman bellowed. “You will strike that beast dead! Do  _ not  _ fall back or you will be answering to me, and you had better believe-”

Mirdéa had heard enough. She lunged, nailing one of the soldiers into the ground. He screamed shrilly, trying to make an attack, but she’d already torn into him; her jaw unhinged, revealing jagged fangs stringing with saliva. Her bite was ravenous, mauling his neck until his head was severed off and bones jutted awkwardly out of punctured skin. Another soldier charged but was impaled by the hook of her wing, the appendage wringing into his intestines, his body also now pumping dark blood. 

The remaining soldiers rocked on their feet, very much looking like they were going to flee. They knew they couldn’t win this battle but they had to stay with their leader, as they were just as afraid of her as they were of the beast - especially as they watched the woman approach the feeding vampire. She showed no fear now, drawing her sword up and the the outside. Her point aimed downward, ready to strike through Mirdéa’s back. 

“I pray there still may be hope for you in Sovngarde, Mirdéa.” 

Mirdéa froze, blood dripping from her chin as she slowly looked up. She turned to face the woman but was struck, the sword plunging through her gut. She screamed, the sound utterly petrifying as it grew louder. The soldiers that had stood behind now fled, sprinting through the snow without turning back. The woman didn’t notice, as she was still sliding the sword through Mirdéa, slowly but roughly. Mirdéa swiped, one of her claws catching the woman’s cheek and ripping it open to reveal her bloodied gums. She shrieked, falling to her back with her sword still impaling Mirdéa. 

Mirdéa clasped her claws around the handle, grunting and hissing as she slowly tried to pull it from her. When it barely budged she pulled it with more force, blood spurting from the gash upon its removal. She panted deeply, shaking as she felt herself weaken from the silver she clutched. She didn’t let this make her falter, though. She looked down at the woman, who was trying to get on her feet, and held the sword up over her. She scrambled, digging through the snow trying to move out of the way as Mirdéa prepared her strike.

She used the last of her strength to plunge downward, feeling the blade strike as she closed her eyes. The scream following faded, drowned out by the slow heartbeat in Mirdéa’s ears. She felt a tingling sensation all over her body and she felt a numb strike to her jaw, the cold of the snow greeting her immediately after. She moved slowly like a hungover drunkard, eyes still closed as she felt herself change - into what, she didn’t know. She only knew that she was weak, cold, and very, very drained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Mirdéa will stop passing out at the end of every chapter soon, haha.


	10. The Winking Skeever

Warmth slowly brought Mirdéa to consciousness. Wool hugged her body and a damp cloth weighed lightly on her head, something crackling slowly becoming audible. She groaned, triggering excited murmurs in the room. The voices were muffled the same as when she was in the snow, but she could tell there were at least two people in the room.

She opened her eyes to find a little girl running in, a man following. They both moved to her side, the girl looking up to the man as he removed the cloth from Mirdéa’s forehead. Mirdéa flinched, trying to move away.

“Stop that,” the man stated, his voice firm. “You’ll just hurt yourself all over again.”

“I told you,” the girl said. “Even when she was out she moved like that.”

“Who are you?” Mirdéa muttered, relaxing slightly as the man switched out the cloth on her head. He introduced himself as Corpulus, and the little girl, Minette, as his daughter. He explained how Mirdéa had been found bleeding out in the snow by the stable keeper, who had heard screaming a ways out. 

“Quite the mess, I heard,” Corpulus frowned. “Makes me wonder what made you bleed like that.”

“Especially since we couldn’t find many marks on you,” Minette piped in. “You just had a gash on your stomach, but even that wasn’t deep enough to let out  _ that _ much blood.” 

_ Not deep enough? _ Mirdéa was confused at this. Hadn’t she been impaled? And hadn’t the one who’d impaled her been around long enough to try and kill her? She didn’t know why she was alive, she didn’t know where she was, she didn’t know what happened to the woman - she knew nothing but of how confused she was.

She moved her arms, muscles sore as she stretched them under her wool blanket. She felt her hands - no claws. No wings, no bulging muscle, no monstrous fangs. She was only warm, cozy, and full.

_ Full. _

“What of the others?” Mirdéa asked, looking between Minette and Corpulus, who exchanged befuddled glances. 

“You were the only one there,” Minette said slowly. “You’d a decent layer of fresh snow on you by the time you were found, so if someone was with you they were probably long gone.”

“Were these others you speak of your attackers?” Corpulus inquired. When Mirdéa nodded he crossed his arms, appearing to be in thought. It didn’t last long. “Well, at least they’re gone and away from you.” He offered a warm grin. “You can rest easy.”

“Who are you, by the way?” The little girl asked.

“I’m Mirdéa,” Mirdéa said with a gentle smile. 

Minette’s eyes lit up. “That’s a really pretty name,” she smiled.

Mirdéa chuckled, thanking the girl for her kindness. However, her happiness didn’t last. She was burdened with what had transpired only hours ago, and it confused her how she was the only one left at the scene. No woman, no soldiers, just her bleeding out in the snow. She traced her fingers over where she’d been stabbed, feeling puckered skin through her bandages.

“Would you mind telling me where I am?” Mirdéa looked around the room, which was small but cozy. She rested in the center of a large double bed, two wardrobes with a washing basin in the middle on the far wall. By the bed was a table with food and a cup of wine.

“Welcome to The Winking Skeever! It’s the finest inn in all of Skyrim.” Minette said, crossing her arms and looking up to her father, who chuckled and put a hand on her shoulder.

“You are in Solitude,” he said, grinning still. “I’m a bit surprised you didn’t know how close you were to the city, but that matters not. You are here now, and we’ll gladly keep you until you’re fully mended.

“Now, we’ll leave you to do your business. If you have any more questions, just ask.” He began walking to the door, gently ushering Minette along with him. “Take it easy, Mirdéa.”

He closed the door behind them, leaving Mirdéa alone with her thoughts. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of footsteps pass by. Too much went through her head, too much weight was in her chest. She sat up, holding the cloth to her head as intense vertigo overcame her. She squeezed her eyes shut, groaning as she moved to rest her feet on the floor. She felt fur, coarse but warm from the fireplace. She opened her eyes and watched as she wiggled her toes into the pelt. “I cannot believe this is happening,” Mirdéa said to herself, slowly rising to stand. She was bare, spare the bandages around her forearms and abdomen. She took to the wardrobe, finding a suitable belted tunic; it was nice and warm. 

She moved to sit back down on the bed, sighing heavily and resting her elbows on her knees. A dark cloud drifted over her mind, causing her to grow still. Visions of darkness blinded her. She wanted to be free of this. She never intended for her mortal body be erased and replaced with such a monstrosity. She felt as though she was lost back in the twisting caves she’d been sent to. She’d failed her mission, herself and everyone she knew.

Mirdéa wept, her shoulders heaving as she fought to stifle her sobs. Her body shook and her jaw tightened, feeling the weight in her chest slowly grow more and more heavy. She hated this. She  _ hated _ this. Anger pooled into her, anger that could smite any number of Dawnguard soldiers or vampire lords. Her tears began to sting, burning as she opened her eyes - everything was in red. She rubbed her eyes roughly for the stinging to stop but the burn only increased, the red filter in her eyes growing darker and her hands suddenly feeling sticky. She looked down.

Her hands were covered in blood. 

She gave a shriek at the sight, looking down upon herself to find she was in the same bloody clothes as before, her skin frostbitten and her flesh pale. Snow began to pile at her feet, blood seeping out from beneath them. Festering arms with broken nails shot up and reached for her, pulling at her and dragging her down.

“Enough!” Mirdéa shouted, the room going dark. “ENOUGH!”

The world suddenly whipped around her, screeching and squeaking shredding the silence in the room. She felt her feet levitate off the floor, her body quickly moving across the room to slam into a table in the corner. She collapsed atop it, breathing heavily as she saw what had been surrounding her: bats. They were swarming her as she’d flown, but now they proceeded to land on her, to flap and fuse into her skin until they disappeared completely. She stared, wide-eyed.

The rap on the door scared her, making her bolt upright and yelp again. 

“Mirdéa?” It was Minette. “Mirdéa, are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Mirdéa gasped, still looking where she’d seen bats vanish into her. “I just knocked over the t-table, that’s all.” There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of the child’s feet walking away. Mirdéa sighed, easing herself. She didn’t know how she’d managed what she did but it was interesting, to say the least. 

Some time went by and Mirdéa stayed in her room, listening to music flow from down the hall. She decided to venture out, the music suddenly a bit louder. She also took notice that her room was on a balcony overlooking the main room of the inn, and she could see many people inside. Some were at the bar getting drinks, some were chatting at tables eating some sort of dish, and some were dancing before the lute-playing bard. 

Mirdéa descended the stairs, wanting to get a good drink herself. She wasn’t sure if she would like anything a city full of Imperials had to offer, but she had to give them grace. After all, a man and his daughter were letting her stay in their inn until she was fully recovered. She didn’t expect that to be very long, though. 

She pulled up a stool by the bar, requesting something light to drink. 

“You sure that’s all you want, lass?”

She looked to the bartender and noticed that is was Corpulus, and he had a quirk in his brow. “After everything you’ve been through I thought a strong lady like yourself would want something of more sustenance.”

She shook her head, insisting. “Alright,” Corpulus said, acting like she didn’t know what she was talking about. Nonetheless, he poured her a drink. “Don’t worry about the cost. It’s on the house,” he said, under his breath, “but  _ only _ for you.” 

“That’s no fair,” a voice by Mirdéa cooed. She jumped, looking to her left to find a man in robes - she  _ knew _ he wasn’t there before. “Think of how angry your customers will be if they find out you’re giving out drinks to all the maidens!”

Even Corpulus seemed a bit surprised, but he didn’t seem to pay much mind after. If anything, he seemed to recognize the character, and he was obviously annoyed. His shoulders dropped and he rolled his eyes, waving the man off. “Away with you, Guevenne. I don’t want any more trouble from you.”

The man feigned offence, briefly looking to Mirdéa with dramatic disbelief. “I never caused you trouble, Corpulus! Only the folk who dare take a challenge!”

“Aye,” Corpulus scowled, “challenges at  _ my  _ bar. Word goes around fast here, Guevenne. You know this.” He tapped a finger on the wooden counter. “Word goes around fast and people are starting to stay away because of you. Leave so I can have my coin.”

“No need to get your knickers in a twist, man,” Guevenne chuckled, turning his full attention to Mirdéa. “This one.” He nodded towards Corpulus and snickered. “Anyways, what’s a lovely little woman like you doing in here?” He reached for her ears to flick at them but she quickly slapped his hand away. “What?” He grinned. “I just like elf ears.”

“Leave her be,” Corpulus warned. Guevenne ignored him.

“Well?” He leaned a bit closer. “What’s your story?”

Mirdéa glared at him, leaning back. “It’s nothing of your concern,” she said, beginning to scoot in her seat to get away from the man’s rancid breath.

Guevenne moved back to lean against the wall. “No need to be defensive.” A sly smirk quickly spread on his lips. “Hey, I know what’ll get you to ease up.” He tapped the rim of Mirdéa’s cup. “Care for a good drinking contest?”

“Absolutely not,” Corpulus interrupted, snatching the cup away. “None of that, especially with her. You leave off now or I’ll be calling the guards.”

The threat seemed only to annoy Guevenne. He huffed, “Guess there will be no fun for me today.” 

Mirdéa looked to Corpulus, nodding her thanks. She rose from her seat and smoothed her tunic. “Thank you for the drink, Corpulus.”

“Not a problem,” he nodded, smiling. “You be safe and keep yourself warm.”

She nodded again, returning the smile before turning to walk out the inn’s doors. However, she ran into Minette before leaving, who was with another man nearer Mirdéa’s age. “Mirdéa!” Minette waved. “This is my older brother, Sorex!” 

He nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, Mirdéa. Minette’s told me quite a bit about you,” he furrowed his brow. “How are you feeling? Are you sure you want to be heading out after what happened?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m sure I can manage a walk around the city.” She offered a small wave as she continued walking.

Sorex intervened again.  “I could show you around! There are plenty of things to do here. There’s even an execution scheduled. It’s starting soon, actually,” he said, a strange look coming across his face. “The man’s a traitor and a fool. He’s got it coming to him.”

Mirdéa didn’t really care for the execution of someone she didn’t know, but she did like the idea of having a guide. She agreed to go with him and his eyes lit up. 

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.” He turned to Minette. “If father asks, let him know that I’m showing Mirdéa around. I’ll be back here in time for the dinner rounds, so make sure he doesn’t get all fussy.”

Minette nodded. “No problem. I just wish I could see the execution,” she sighed, walking away. When she was well enough away Sorex ushered Mirdéa along, the cold greeting them as he opened the doors. 


	11. Execution

Mirdéa heard shouting almost immediately and her attention was drawn to her left, where a throng of people were throwing things and cursing someone to the void. 

“That’s the execution, I’m assuming?” Mirdéa nudged Sorex. 

“Indeed. The execution of Roggvir.” He scowled, walking toward the crowd. “He is a traitor. He allowed Ulfric Stormcloak to enter the city, who killed High King Torygg. After his death he allowed Ulfric to escape.”

When the crowd was in full view she saw him; she saw a man bound at his wrists, ragged clothes hanging off his back. She presumed that this man was Roggvir, and he had the ever-burning hatred of nearly everyone in the city. She felt a bit bad for him, seeing him standing by the block in such a miserable way. 

“Don’t you pity him,” Sorex said. “He deserves none.”

The two formed into the crowd, the shouting rattling in Mirdéa’s head. The sounds merged into one, the uproar slowly becoming a high ring. 

Then silence fell. The executioner had trudged up to the elevated platform where Roggvir stood, guards following behind. It was ominous how the people of Solitude had been making such a ruckus only moments ago. At least it was helping the ring in Mirdéa’s ears to stop. 

“They can’t hurt uncle Roggvir!” A girl wailed to a man beside her. “Tell them he didn’t do it!” The man tried to soothe her, to make her go home, but the girl insisted. “Tell them he didn’t do it!”

Mirdéa ignored the child as the guards assumed their positions. Sorex seemed very eager for the beheading; his eyes never left the sword. She dismissed his excitement, however, as the captain of the guards stepped forward to stand beside the executioner. 

“Roggvir.” The guard’s voice boomed, echoing in the courtyard and startling some people. Mirdéa smirked. “You helped Ulfric Stormcloak escape this city after he murdered High King Torygg. By opening that gate for Ulfric you betrayed the people of Solitude.” 

“There was no murder!” Roggvir pleaded. There was an uproar of shouts and curses, many simply calling him a filthy traitor. “Ulfric challenged Torygg. He beat the High King in fair combat!”

More curses spewed from the people, including Sorex. Mirdéa remained silent, only watching as the captain held up a hand for silence. He then turned to the executioner. He nodded. “Prepare the prisoner.”

Roggvir sneered at the man, flinching his shoulder from his grasp. “I don’t need your help.”

“Very well,” the captain said. “Bow your head, Roggvir.”

Everyone watched in earnest as he knelt down, resting his head on the chopping block. The executioner moved by him, adjusting his grip on the sword’s hilt. Dozens of eyes followed as the weapon was slowly raised.

“On this day…” Roggvir said, his voice growing to a shout, “... I go to Sovngarde!” 

The blade fell, striking the nape of the man’s neck and severing it clean off. Blood spewed and sputtered as the head fell to the cobblestone platform - they hadn’t a basket to catch it. The people released a mixture of cheering and gagging, some leaving people leaving altogether. Sorex was one of the more eager persons there, but Mirdéa felt sudden dread.

Roggvir still bled, the fresh scent catching her attention first. She was fixated, not budging even as Sorex began talking to her. His voice was fading - everyone was fading. She only felt hunger. Her innards twisted and her mouth grew dry as she clenched her jaw. She could almost feel the warmth of his blood trickle down her throat, the squish of his flesh as she pierced the skin. She could see herself cradling his decapitated corpse, feasting on him while the city slept. 

She felt cold.

“Mirdéa?” Sorex called. “Mirdéa, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

She didn’t snap out of her fixation until Sorex nudged her with a bit more vigor. She stumbled and turned to him, taken aback. “What?” She frowned. 

“You zoned out for a minute,” he said with concern. “Did it bother you?”

She looked back to the decapitated body. “Did what bother me?” 

Sorex chuckled awkwardly, scratching the nape of his neck. “Nothing. Never mind.”

Mirdéa cleared her throat, ignoring the desperate thirst she felt. The last thing she wanted was to submit to her hunger _now_. She began to move away, trying to distract herself from the body - it frightened her how the scent grew stronger the more she tried to resist.

"What places are bustling in this city?" She asked, smiling. Sorex was acting funnier then, as he seemed to be fixated on her eyes. She cleared her throat again, lifting a brow. "Sorex? Where do you want to go?"

He blinked, shaking himself out of his trance. "Ah... yes. Right," he said, looking away. "Bustling places, yes? Well, it's not necessarily bustling but they've plenty of bustles there!" He laughed, lightening the mood. "The Radiant Raiment is a nice clothing shop, just down the way. We could go there, if you want. I could even buy you some fresh dresses! I'm sure a pretty lady like you would appreciate some complimenting clothing." He winked, playful.

Mirdéa laughed, blushing lightly. "Sure, we can go there. Lead the way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress on this story will be just a little bit slower - I'm balancing writing fresh chapters and college work. I will try to keep my postings frequent, though!  
> Anyways, I hope you guys are enjoying reading Mirdéa's tale! Drop a kudos and a comment ~


	12. Saccharine

It was in the twilight hours when Mirdéa and Sorex returned to the inn. Though the time was enjoyable, Mirdéa felt fatigued every moment they stepped out of a shop, resulting in the two lingering indoors longer that intended. Sorex didn’t pay any mind to it, however - he just insisted that Mirdéa took her time. 

But time was no luxury for the elf anymore. She could feel it slipping away as the thirst she felt deep in her throat grew, feeling unquenchable by the time they made it back to the Winking Skeever. 

Sorex had been eyeing her cautiously for a while after the execution, despite Mirdéa’s constant attempts at reassurance. It was kind of him at first but she was quickly growing irritated with him, and it didn’t help that her thirst was replaced with nausea. She sat at the bar, not knowing what to do with herself before returning to her room. It was too early to sleep but she felt incredibly fatigued. 

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Corpulus asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You look a bit pale… Have you come down with something?” He frowned, “It may be from being in the cold too much. You probably shouldn’t have even gone out today.” He shook his head, grumbling to himself as he went back to the bar. “Come here.”

He placed a flagon on the counter top, pulling out a flask of amber liquid. He poured it, the smell pungent and making Mirdéa’s nose crinkle. “What is that?” She asked, borderline disgusted by the smell alone. “It smells awful - I can only imagine what it tastes like.”

“It’s a common tonic here,” he said, sliding the drink to her. She stared at it with disapproval. “It should help you. It’s practically a cure-all.”

Mirdéa continued to stare, reluctantly reaching out and slowly bringing the drink up to her lips. “If it’s supposed to help, why does it smell so  _ bad?” _

“Stop complaining and drink.” Corpulus chuckled, though it had a twinge of annoyance in it. 

Mirdéa closed her eyes and chugged, doing her best to get it over with. It stung, but never had a drink so bitter gone down her throat. She slammed the cup down, shoulders tense as she struggled with the burn.

“You didn’t have to down it like that!” Sorex called, passing by the counter with a tray of food. “You could hurt yourself, especially since I’m almost certain you’ve never had a drink a day in your life.”

“She’s managing,” Corpulus laughed, taking the cup from Mirdéa. She was easing up but still had a very bitter expression. Her cheeks turned pink. “It’s even bringing some color back into her.”

“Still, what she probably needs most is rest.” Sorex shrugged and walked away, muttering something under his breath. 

Mirdéa stood, clearing her throat and dusting herself off. “Well… I think I will be off to bed. Thanks for the … drink,” she said, frowning slightly. “I’ll let you know what happens to me if I’m alive in the morning.”

Corpulus laughed, waving her off and going back to work with his customers. Mirdéa smirked, walking away and up the stairs to her room. The warmth comforted her greatly but now that she was alone she couldn’t stop thinking about how terrible she felt - the unquenchable thirst, the burning hunger in her stomach. Or maybe that was just the drink. Either way, the tonic hadn’t helped Mirdéa in the slightest… spare flushed cheeks. 

She sat in bed, rubbing her throat lightly as she reclined herself, sighing as her head hit the pillow. She listened to the sound of footsteps and music again, waiting for it to lull her to sleep - but sleep never came.

Hours went by and Mirdéa didn’t get a wink of sleep. She only kept staring at the ceiling and listening to the footsteps, following them around the inn until they began to dwindle and trudge to their beds. The music grew quieter as people left, and she could hear Corpulus, Sorex and Minette talking downstairs. She was tempted to join them but was sure they were too busy for extra company at this time of the night. 

More time passed. The family had finally gone to bed as well, and the music had stopped. But Mirdéa’s thirst was still there. She was irritated now, bitter after hours of trying to stifle her starvation. Her skin felt dry and her eyes burned, a strange glow clouding her peripheral. She twitched and flinched, restless in her bed. When she closed her eyes all she could see was red. 

She sat upright with a groan, quickly rising to her feet and heading to her door. If she couldn’t sleep then she would at least wander to get her mind off of things. She walked down the hall and down the stairs, careful to keep from making the floorboards creak. She was fairly silent, which surprised her - she’d never managed to be so mute. 

She found herself wandering to the bar, the scent of wines and ales luring her. She could only think of how thirsty she was, how greatly she craved to be quenched. 

The walk certainly wasn’t helping her clear her mind.

She went behind the counter, going through the list of different beverages on hand. She pulled out a few bottles, not even bothering to grab a flagon as she uncorked them and downed whatever was inside. Too bitter. Another bottle. Bitter.

Bitter.

Bitter.

Bitter. 

_ Bitter. _

Mirdéa put each empty bottle back into its place on the rack, the glasses emitting taunting clinks - she was still thirsty. After all of the bottles of wine, she was still as thirsty as she was before. 

Now she was on the verge of madness. What the  _ hell  _ did she have to do for relief? What drink would satisfy? What more could she do? She sauntered from the bar, a little tipsy after her drinking tangent, and began to meander into parts of the inn she hadn’t seen before. It was mostly storage for food and drink, but there were other rooms beyond. One of the rooms had its door slightly ajar. She decided to pass it, ignoring the urge to snoop inside.

But when Mirdéa passed, a sweet aroma caught her scent. It was almost sickly sweet, it was so potent, but nevertheless it peaked her interest. She took a step back, standing in the dark before the doorway. From where she stood she could see a single lit candle flickering softly, but even that small amount of illumination was enough to grant her significant eyesight through the pitch. Everything appeared to be normal as it looked like any other bedroom, but she still didn’t know _where_ the scent was coming from.

She crept in, still keeping the door open a crack after entering. She looked briefly, turning and tilting her head to follow the aroma. It led her toward the back of the room, where a bed was fitted into the corner. Inside was a little girl, wrapped in her blankets and snoring softly.

Minette.

But Mirdéa felt nothing. Any fondness she previously had for the child was absolutely gone. Her mind was blank, and the glow in her peripheral had grown to the point where her sight was overcome with it; it caused her to see the gentle pulse of Minette’s beating heart, and the sweet little vein in the side of her neck. 

Mirdéa had smelled her blood. That was the sweet aroma. That’s what had lured her in - the scent alone made the fierceness of her thirst completely evaporate. But she knew it wouldn’t last. She’d suffer again the moment she walked out of the room, and that was the last thing she wanted.

She knelt by Minette’s bed, stroking her hair gently. The girl sighed softly, happily, and resituated herself so that her head was tilted into her pillow. She began to mumble in her sleep, but Mirdéa couldn’t understand anything she said. 

Mirdéa closed her eyes, the golden glow tinted orange. She snarled, opening her mouth as her fangs sharpened and elongated from her gums. She clung to Minette’s hair, gently holding her down as she made her move. Her teeth sank into her neck with ease, and the popping of her vein made Mirdéa feel something fresh and new. The surge of warm blood fell sweet on her tongue, and she drank eagerly. Minette groaned, flinching to move her hand where Mirdéa drank, but she had grown too weak to fight. Mirdéa never even detected that she awakened.

She drank until she was more than full, retracting her fangs and releasing Minette. She rose, feeling rejuvenated and more alive than she’d ever felt before. She looked down upon her victim, still asleep in her bed, breathing slowly and deeply. She pet her hair again, moving her locks to hide the ghastly puncture wounds on her neck. 

Mirdéa smiled, backing out of the room and snuffing the candle to immerse the room in darkness, the only source of illumination the vibrant glow of her eyes. 


	13. Into the Cold

Morning came and business proceeded as usual in the Winking Skeever, only Corpulus’s youngest had fallen ill. She had been complaining of her body aching and a high fever, and Sorex had scarcely left her side. Mirdéa could hear him frantically move, his footfalls going from light to heavy as he brought things back to Minette. From what she gathered she was doing better, slowly, but her fever was still high.

“Mirdéa?” He called eventually, knocking lightly at her door. She opened the door to find him with an expression of worry, his brow knit and head beaded with sweat. “I don’t know what to do. Minette is sick and I don’t know the cause. I want to keep talking to father but he’s busy with customers.” He frowned. “I’m sorry to ask this of you so early but do you think you can help me?”

She looked at him, admiring how much he was trying to help Minette. “Of course,” she said, nodding and stepping into the hall. Sorex looked her up and down, a weak smile on his lips for a moment.

“You’re wearing the dress I got you!” His voice was airy, like he was trying to lighten the mood. “You also don’t look sick anymore. I see father’s little potion worked wonders. You look good.”

“Thank you,” Mirdéa said, then motioned for him to lead on. 

“Right.” He turned, leading Mirdéa downstairs and too the room she’d visited last night. “If I’m going to be honest, I was first concerned when I came in to wake her and noticed her candle was out.” When they reached the door he stopped, looking to Mirdéa again. “She never lets it go out. She hates the dark, and her mother always kept a candle by her bed so she would feel safe.”

Mirdéa felt a twinge of guilt, but she didn’t show anything outwardly. “That’s very sweet of her mother.” 

He nodded. “But that’s not the worst of it.” He paused, staring at the door’s handle and sighing. He opened it and walked inside, revealing a pale Minette with a cold cloth on her head. They both knelt beside her and Sorex reached for Minette’s hair.

“A fair warning, this may be a bit of a shock.” He slid the hair from her neck, revealing puncture wounds, puckered and black with clotted blood. It did look a little rough, but it also looked like Sorex had been doing a decent job at keeping it clean. 

Mirdéa gave a gasp alluding to surprise and worry. “What is that?” 

“I don’t know,” he said, peering at the wound. “I’ve never seen it in my life, but it appears to be the source of whatever is making her sick. Just look at the veins!” He nodded, pointing out the thin dark veins branching from the wound. “What mark could do that?”

“And you haven’t told Corpulus?” 

“Of course not!” He sighed, sounding more distressed. “I wouldn’t dare to bother my father with news like this.”

“But maybe he could help. He helped me, didn’t he?”

“I don’t think a drink could fix this. You were just weak and cold. Of course that liquor made you look lively.” Sorex began to sound irritated. “I wish it were that easy for Minette. I wish she would heal as quickly as you did. It’s almost like the sickness spread to her.”

“Sorex,” Corpulus called, nearing the door. “Go downstairs for a moment. I want to see Minette.” Sorex obeyed and left quickly, leaving Mirdéa with a very distraught Corpulus - but that didn’t seem to be the only thing wrong. 

“Do you know what caused this, Mirdéa?” He asked, though his full attention was on Minette. “You’ve braved the cold wilds before. What could’ve done this?”

“I don’t know, sir,” she frowned, “but it does seem to be some sort of bite.” She reached her hand for Minette’s. “I don’t know exactly what, but maybe a - “

Corpulus snatched Mirdéa’s hand with sudden force, his grip strong enough to nearly break her bones. She wailed, trying to jerk free, but Corpulus had a look of searing rage in his eyes. He was not letting her go, and he was not letting her touch Minette.

“Don’t take me for a  _ fool _ , Mirdéa.” He seethed, gritting his teeth. “I knew damn well  _ what  _ you were the moment I saw you in that room. I also knew you were weak and that you were fighting this horrid curse.” Mirdéa tried to free herself again but his grip only tightened, turning her fingertips blue. “I took you in. I gave you a warm bed and food, and even my foolish son fancied you.” He tossed her down, letting her fumble and scramble to be pressed against the wall.

“N-Nothing you gave could sustain me!” Mirdéa tried to keep a level head. “After every meal I hungered. After every drink I’d thirst. Every night I would lie awake in the dark!” She looked to the child, still limp in her bed. “I craved something far more satisfying.” 

Corpulus growled, and trudged to her, clasping a thick hand around her neck. “She is a  _ child _ . My own!” Tears welled in his eyes but hatred was on his tongue. “You miserable bitch, you chose to drink from my daughter! You could have gone to any bastard like a whore, and yet you chose my Minette.”

Mirdéa wept, gasping hoarsely through her sobs and his choke hold. “Please… Corpulus…” She weakly clawed at his hand, her face and limbs beginning to tingle and sting as her lungs burned. She whistled another breath, her eyes just rolling back when he released her. She collapsed, gagging and heaving as she struggled to hold herself up. 

Corpulus sluggishly retreated to the bed, kneeling and hunching over his daughter. 

“I want you to leave,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t want to see you in my home again. You have outstayed your welcome,  _ parasite.”  _

Mirdéa collected herself, fleeing from the room and stumbling into the bar. She managed to slip through the crowd, avoiding much contact with the surrounding drinkers as she made her way to the door. She burst out, hurrying to the gates to escape her crime and guilt.

_ “I am sorry.” _


End file.
